


that's what you get (for waking up in vegas)

by skittidyne



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, drunk vegas wedding, look that's all i have to offer with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6160745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittidyne/pseuds/skittidyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There was an Elvis?” Hajime asks. </p><p>“He was the officiator. It’s the cliché, right?” </p><p>“…Officiator of <i>what</i>?” Tooru asks with a look down at Takahiro’s hand. </p><p>“You can borrow my phone to pull pictures from for <i>our</i> wedding album.” Issei reaches over and grasps the hand with the ring on it. Everyone is staring at their clasped hands like a three-headed lobster just crawled onto the table. “You were both the best men and I was very, deeply touched by how affected you both were at the ceremony,” he says in a perfect deadpan.</p><p> </p><p>(( or: iwaizumi does not want to be the responsible one, and thus they suffer the consequences, or, perhaps, 'suffer' is a bit too strong of a word ))</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's what you get (for waking up in vegas)

**Author's Note:**

> (( title from [waking up in vegas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-pUaogoX5o) by katy perry. bc i am nothing if not predictable ))

Takahiro wakes up with his mouth tasting like ass. 

Not really ass, not the kind that he kinda sort of  _likes_  but actually the ass that comes after significant amounts of whiskey and tequila. Which sucks ass. He feels a bit like keeping the ass train of thought going, too, but mainly because the first daylight realization he makes after the Unholy Taste In His Mouth one is that he’s using someone’s pretty damn fine ass as a pillow. 

Takahiro raises a hand to grope at his pillow. Firm, round, quite magnificent indeed. His view is of his pillow’s legs, which are also pretty nice, but does little to help him identify whoever the fuck this is. 

So he does the only thing he can do: he scoots, very carefully, up until his head is resting in the dip of his pillow’s spine, and then he raises his hand and gives the ass a resounding _smack_. 

Takahiro is dumped onto the floor as his pillow gives a yelp and jerks awake. 

Much easier than just turning his head, yes. He’d laugh, except a) the sudden movement now makes him want to puke, and b) that was absolutely Hajime’s voice which means he’s about to get the worst ass-beating of his life. 

Puking comes first. Takahiro staggers to his feet, swallowing thickly, and squints at the too-bright room in search of something that might be a bathroom. It doesn’t look like a bedroom. In fact, it… looks a lot like a _kitchen_. 

Kitchens have sinks, at least, and Takahiro’s stomach roils in a way that makes him decidedly _not_  picky. He turns the water on full blast and throws up whatever he’d thought was a good idea to drink the night before. None of it was good decisions. And now his mouth _definitely_  tastes like ass, the sour, pukey kind. 

“That’s disgusting,” comes Hajime’s sleep-rough voice. Takahiro shoves his whole head underneath the faucet—nice and big sink, pretty ritzy kitchen overall, Takahiro has vague memories of being impressed by the wedding couple’s hotel suite—and rinses out his mouth. “I guess that answers my question about your hangover status. Did you really need to hit me?” 

“I didn’t _hit_  you,” Takahiro corrects, and rinses his mouth again, “I spanked you. C’mon, Hajime-kun, don’t you even know the difference—?” 

“God, shut up.” 

Takahiro pulls his head out, hair still dripping, feeling far more awake and slightly less disgusting. But still pretty bad. He’s a little cold now, too; the water hadn’t helped, but apparently, at some point during the night, he’d lost his pants. Hajime lost his shirt, too, which is normally a sight Takahiro would never discourage—but a glint on his hand catches his eye. 

Hajime stretches in front of him, joints loudly protesting from a night sprawled out on a couple blankets on a kitchen floor, and Takahiro holds out his hand to examine the ring now on his finger. Right finger, too, but wrong hand. 

Hajime doesn’t seem to notice, so Takahiro has a moral decision to make: does he tease or does he just ask and/or give it back? He knows the ring isn’t a cheap one, and he also knows that Hajime has more or less been an emotional wreck beneath his usual gruff, put-together exterior. If he thought he’d lost this…

Teasing it is. 

“I didn’t know you cared,” Takahiro coos. He doesn’t quite remember when or _why_  he has Hajime’s ring on his finger— _that_  will be something to bring up at the wedding, that’s for sure—but he can roll with the punches. Even if the punches seem to be pounding directly against his skull and he feels ready to vomit again. Maybe pissing off one Iwaizumi Hajime early in the morning while deathly hungover is a poor decision. 

Hajime finally seems to realize why Takahiro is holding out his hand like that, and admittedly, his one moment of fear and anxiety and horror at _oh my god I almost lost the ring_  is pretty damn funny. In a terrible way. But the moment passes, and he just fixes Takahiro with a flat expression and holds up his hand in response. 

Correct hand, correct finger. “Not mine, and _don’t_  scare me like that, you asshole.” 

Takahiro studies the ring on his finger. “Hm, no, I guess in hindsight, a ring that fits your sausage fingers wouldn’t fit long, slender ones like mine.” 

“You’re as bad as Oikawa.” 

“Ooh, still calling him that? Getting it all out before it’s not true anymore? Issei and I have a bet about how long that will last—”

“Shut up,” Hajime interrupts and gives him a playful but firm shove. Takahiro stumbles, pretending to be gravely wounded, although the movement makes his stomach protest mightily once more. Maybe no more jostling for awhile. “So, uh, how much do you actually remember from last night?” 

“Are you admitting you were blackout drunk?” Takahiro asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Like you weren’t?” 

“Oh, no, I absolutely was. But I _do_  remember your speech yesterday about how someone had to be The Responsible One and you were _pissed_  it always defaulted to you.” 

“Clearly it wasn’t, last night,” Hajime mumbles thoughtfully. He finds his shirt thrown over the back of the couch, and sadly, Takahiro is still pantsless. He wishes the situation would’ve been reversed. He does find someone else’s shirt strewn over the far arm of the couch, too, however, and with another little shiver, he decides that two shirts are better than nothing. 

It’s a little baggy on him, and a quick sniff of it confirms that it’s probably Issei’s. He’d know that stupid sweet cologne anywhere. He's pretty sure it'd shown up in his drunken dreams last night.

“Did you just _sniff_  that?” Hajime asks with a badly hidden snort of laughter. 

“Had to make sure it wasn’t your darling fiancé’s. Wouldn’t want you to get too jealous now.” 

“Maybe it’ll be _your_  darling fiancé’s if you could muster up the balls to actually, I don’t know, _ask him out_  or something. Watching you two dance around each other—” 

“I’m honestly feeling pretty attacked right now, Hajime-kun—” Takahiro tries to break in, but Hajime is having none of it. 

“—it is _frustrating_  and you’re both only going to get sloshed at the reception and end up making out in some corner and you’ll both regret it for two months and then  _maybe_  you’ll finally figure this out. Or we could skip ahead and save us all some time,” Hajime triumphantly concludes, arms folded across his chest. 

“That’s so rude,” Takahiro replies, pulling a scandalized face. “We will be drunk and making out _on top of_ the tables, thank you very much. We want _everyone_ to see our shame and future romcom regret trope, thank you.” 

“What are you two yelling about so early in the morning…?” They find Tooru as he stumbles out from down some hallway, adorably mussed from sleep and rubbing at his eyes. Hajime’s face immediately softens and there’s something in his eyes that’s overwhelmingly like adoration or awe or wonderment or maybe just plain ol’ cheesy  _love_ , and it causes Takahiro to fake gagging into a nearby vase. 

“Good morning,” Hajime says after a breathless beat. (Yeah, because _Takahiro_  is totally going to be the horrible romcom trope.) “Hungover?” 

“I can function,” Tooru replies with another wide yawn. He blinks a few times, adjusting, then looks back and forth between them. “Mattsun’s shirt,” he says with a point at Takahiro (and he nods), “Makki’s pants. Iwa-chan, where did _your_  clothes go?” 

“You dirty little thief,” Takahiro gasps, hand covering his open mouth. 

Tooru’s eyes fixate on the little silver band there. His reaction is even funnier than Hajime’s; he stares, for a long moment, then _slowly_  brings his own hand up to stare in ever-growing horror at his fingers. 

…Where his own engagement band is still settled snugly on his ring finger. 

“… _Huh_ ,” Takahiro and Tooru say in unison, staring at the third, mystery ring. 

“Can you remember anything about last night?” Hajime asks with a groan. 

“Hm,” Tooru says, still staring at Takahiro’s left hand, and now it’s getting _weird_  if it’s not either of theirs. He’d thought this would be a funny joke, haha the fiancés lost their ring cue panicking, but if there’s an extra, then what? Did someone go jewelry shopping last night? “I remember going to the casino and winning money. And when I tried to stuff it down your shirt, you just took it off,” Tooru pouts. 

Hajime’s lip curls. “I’m not one of the strippers or escorts here.” 

“But you _did_  take off your clothes.” 

“Not for you,” Takahiro points out, “since _we_  spent a tender, loving night together on the kitchen floor.” 

“Then who was I in bed with?” Tooru asks with an exaggerated questioning air. 

“Is that my cue?” Issei asks. He comes up behind Tooru and, making eye contact with Hajime, loops his arms around his shoulders and places a loud _smack_  of a kiss against the brunet’s cheek. “Good morning, darling. Was last night as good for you as it was for me?” 

“Oh, yes, you’re hilarious,” Hajime replies thinly. 

“This is what happens when we’re separated. He gets all of the terrible jokes and I’m left with all of the good looks and charm,” Takahiro says. 

“I had enough charm and good looks to get Oikawa Tooru into my bed, so who’s the  _real_  winner here?” 

“I am,” Hajime announces, because he’s still half of a sappy engaged, soon-to-be-wed couple. Tooru lets out what can only be described as a squeal of delight and he worms his way out of Issei’s arms to embrace him. 

Takahiro and Issei pretend to retch at the same time. 

“Can we just go to breakfast now?” Issei asks, loudly enough to cut across the little good morning murmurs and pecks. “I think I heard Tooru say he’s buying. I want pancakes.” 

Takahiro would be _very_  happy with ibuprofen and white rice, stomach considered, but he is also highly amused by Issei’s fast and deep adoration of greasy American diner food. So he just puts his hands together and works up his best puppy dog pout. Issei soon copies him, pushing out his bottom lip for good measure, but there’s a little blip of light near his hands that catches Takahiro’s attention.

He has a ring, too. 

 _Huh_. 

It takes some doing, but they all manage to find their own luggage and pick out reasonably unwrinkled, clean clothes. Hajime’s face is endearingly red when he hands Takahiro’s pants back, and nothing more is said about the matter—although Issei does chuckle mysteriously. They down painkillers and water, Takahiro grabs the horrible tourist sunglasses he bought the day before in the airport, and they head out into the sweltering Nevada heat. 

Takahiro pretty much immediately regrets this— _surely_  they could’ve just ordered room service and maybe passed out again—but he’s committed. And he's sort of bad at saying no to Issei's ideas. Tooru and Hajime walk ahead of them, hand in hand, consulting Tooru’s phone for a map. They’re sickeningly adorable. Takahiro, empirically, knows that it’s only going to get worse leading up until the wedding, but that’s only another two days of torture, at least. 

He’s regretting getting a connected suite with them, however. They may have dodged the bullet of the first night by getting horrifically hammered last night, but how long will that last? The rooms _can’t_  be soundproof, not with how loud Tooru gets, and some almost-capable-of-shame part of Takahiro sort of wishes he didn’t know that about his friend. But the suite had been cheaper, and he does _not_  want to know how much a last-minute room in Vegas would cost, especially at _that_  hotel. This trip alone had been a painful dip into his bank account. 

He wonders about the ring on his finger. He hasn’t checked his account on his phone yet this morning, almost scared of what he’d find. 

“They’re so picturesque,” Issei remarks, pulling Takahiro out of his musing, and holds up his fingers like he’s framing a photo. “It’s hideous, I hate it. They’re poster children.” 

“For what?” Takahiro asks with a grin.

“No idea, but they definitely should be poster children,” he replies, nodding sagely. Takahiro laughs, loud enough to make Tooru raise an eyebrow at him over his shoulder, and Issei just sighs. “Look, it’s still early and I’m jet-lagged to all hell. I think I left my amazing wit a couple timezones back.” 

“Or maybe in the bottom of whatever we were drinking last night,” Takahiro suggest and Issei just shrugs. They find a little family diner just a few blocks from the hotel, but by the time they step into the midmorning rush, Takahiro is already sweating from the heat and maybe still sick from the hangover. He feels like death warmed over and it’s not at all improved by the smell of all the _food_. 

Issei, however, inhales deeply and has such a blissed-out expression that Takahiro politely decides _not_  to throw up on him, should it come to that. 

Tooru does most of the talking, being the best at English as well as the charmer that he is, and they end up squished into a booth in the corner of the restaurant. Takahiro is up against the window, the blessedly cool window, and he wonders if maybe he can’t just conk out again while the rest of them eat. Then, his empty stomach rumbles, completely betraying him, and Issei grins at him. 

“They have creampuffs here,” Tooru points out and suddenly Takahiro likes this place a _lot_  more. 

“I want three orders of creampuffs.” 

“You’re going to get sick.”

“Again,” Hajime adds without looking up from the menu. 

“I want three orders of creampuffs,” Takahiro stubbornly maintains. 

“Don’t worry, sweetie, I’ll order for you,” Issei says and flips through his own menu. “But you have to try some of the pancakes I’m getting. This place looks like they have amazing food.” 

“This place looks like it was the setting of a film noir murder,” Tooru replies. 

“Amazing food,” is all Issei says. 

Tooru and Issei do most of the talking with the waitress—Issei does, puzzlingly, actually order for Takahiro—while Hajime tries not to look too awkward and Takahiro dozes against the window. His body is awake and settling into its headache and feeling-like-ass-ness, but he’ll fall back asleep through sheer willpower if necessary. 

At least, he believes so, until Tooru asks, “So, what happened last night?” and he’s suddenly a lot more invested in this conversation. 

“What a glorious age we live in, this age of technology and smartphones that record almost everything,” Issei drawls in response, already scrolling on his. He pulls up a picture of Tooru trying to stuff dollar bills down the back of Hajime’s jeans. Hajime’s face is beet red and Tooru seems to be having the time of his life. 

“Delete that.” 

“It’s going in the wedding album Hiro and I are lovingly putting together,” Issei flatly responds and scrolls over to the next picture: a very good one of the engaged couple kissing each other, not even raunchy, just a chaste and very sweet peck on the lips. It almost looks professional. Takahiro is inclined to agree with the poster children thing now. “Oh, this one isn’t that good, better delete it—” 

“You’re so mean! You’re supposed to be our best men, that means you support us and do _nice_  things!” Tooru whines, making a halfhearted grab at the phone. Issei holds it up out of the way—coincidentally right into Takahiro’s face. He plucks the phone from his grasp with ease. 

“It’s your fault you chose terrible best men,” he says and eagerly scrolls through more of the pictures. He can get a vague sense of a timeline with them—he remembers the first and second bars, although he doesn’t remember the one at the casino. It’s after that that things get blurry, and he absolutely does _not_  remember another (failed, goddamnit) arm wrestling competition. There are a few very blurry shots of Tooru crying over _something_ , and then one of Issei and Hajime posing next to a palm tree for some reason. 

And then there’s a selfie, phone held up by Issei, of him kissing Takahiro on the cheek. Takahiro feels his mouth go dry. In the picture, he’s laughing, nose scrunched up and cheeks very red (hopefully only from booze), and Issei is glancing up at the camera with a sly, pleased expression. A… surprisingly sober expression, whereas Takahiro could tell for the last dozen or so pictures that they were all decidedly sloppy drunk. 

“How much did _you_  drink last night?” Takahiro asks suspiciously when Issei yanks his phone back. 

“Someone had to be the responsible one since Hajime refused,” he responds and pulls up more pictures, ones from the first bar. 

“Ooh, I remember that,” Tooru says like he’s surprised. They have photographic evidence of Hajime doing what could only be described as aggressive shots, downing a really inadvisable amount in an effort _not_  to be The Responsible One. 

Issei took so many pictures of the event it looks like a flip-book. 

Hajime makes a garbled sound into his fist and faceplants onto the table. Takahiro can see that the tips of his ears are red. The waitress stops by with their drinks, and spares Hajime a confused look while Tooru waves her off with a sunny smile. 

They go back to viewing the pictures in order, and, halfway through the Shirt Incident at the casino, Tooru realizes that he took pictures on his phone as well. Most of those are significantly blurrier and a good percentage seem to be of shirtless Hajime, but Takahiro catches sight of one that could only be of him with someone wearing white. “Wait, go back to that one.” 

“Is that the Elvis?” Issei asks, leaning over to look. 

“There was an Elvis?” Hajime asks. 

“He was the officiator. It’s the cliché, right?” 

“…Officiator of _what_?” Tooru asks with a look down at Takahiro’s hand. 

“You can borrow my phone to pull pictures from for _our_  wedding album.” Issei reaches over and grasps the hand with the ring on it. Everyone is staring at their clasped hands like a three-headed lobster just crawled onto the table. “You were both the best men and I was very, deeply touched by how affected you both were at the ceremony,” he says in a perfect deadpan. 

Normally, Takahiro would be going along with this, but waking up with a ring on was a little _too_  real for him. Sure, he’d totally do this as a joke, and he’d probably throw himself at Issei while he was drunk off his ass, too, but he’s pretty sure Las Vegas joke weddings are still _legal_. 

“Tooru cried,” Issei adds, because no one else is saying anything. 

“You… got married? Those are wedding rings?” Hajime asks. 

“Sorry we beat you to the punch,” Issei replies, not sounding sorry in the least. 

“You weren’t even dating yet,” Tooru says, utterly bemused, and despite the circumstances, Takahiro is pretty close to taking a picture of his face just for posterity. 

“Hiro,” Issei begins, and Takahiro jumps to attention because the image of their interlaced fingers is getting to be a little Too Much for his hungover, gay heart to handle. He's been in love with this guy probably since high school and now they're _married_ and  _holding hands_ —he should be significantly more concerned with one than the other, come to think. “Would you do me the honor of counting getting greasy, American diner food with me as a date?” Issei solemnly asks.

“Don’t turn this into a joke,” Hajime says hotly, smacking the table, making his fiancé jump. “What _happened_  last night when we were all shitfaced?” 

Issei pulls a face like he has to think very hard about this. “Tooru and I won money gambling, you didn’t play, and Hiro lost money. You thought you saw a movie star and we almost lost you when you tried to get an autograph, we all took pictures with Elvis, and then Cher, too. You and Hiro did your usual pissing match, Tooru threw up on someone’s car, and then we found _another_  Elvis who said there was a deal on wedding rings and licenses. And Hiro thought that would be a good idea.” 

Fuck his shitfaced, gay heart. 

“Tooru started bawling because _your_  wedding is already planned and paid for, so to stop him from crying all over everyone—you _know_  how theatrical he gets—we agreed to get married for you. Because, you know, we're good friends like that.” 

Under literally _any other circumstances_  Takahiro would be overjoyed that something could make Tooru turn that shade of red. Hajime is a full-body blusher, and he’s surprisingly easy once you get to know him. Tooru? No. He’ll play coy and tease and get the attention back off himself when he’s embarrassed. This is truly a momentous occasion.

There is also the fact that he’s apparently a married man now. 

The ex-law-student in him weeps. “This was legally binding. These things are legal affairs,” Takahiro says weakly. 

“It’s good for twelve months. I can show you all the certificates when we get back to the room,” Issei offers. 

Their food arrives, and Issei happily digs in while the other three stare at their food, utterly shell-shocked. 

It isn’t until they’re back at their hotel room, staring at a paper in English, that Hajime bursts out with a hilariously frustrated, “You are _never_  being the responsible one again!” 

“I plan on staying the responsible one and taking responsibility,” Issei replies, taking Takahiro’s hand _again_ and this time his heart absolutely stutters in his chest. “Hiro, let us consummate our love on this bed right here—” 

“That’s _our bed_ , and shouldn’t you two be freaking out a bit more?!” 

“It’s just a year. We’ll get some funny taxes and paperwork, and then it’s no big deal.” 

Takahiro sort of wishes _getting married_ would be a little bigger of a deal, drunk or not. (Or maybe he’s just peeved he doesn’t remember any of the kissing that Issei oh so kindly shared pictures of.)

“You look like you just sat on a porcupine,” Issei says, nudging his now-husband in the side, and Takahiro wishes he _had_ a porcupine to beat his now-husband with. 

“Why would you _go_  with my stupid, drunk-ass ideas?! Me or Tooru’s! I know you can resist crying Tooru, you’re the _only_  one who can, so why the hell did you marry me?!” 

“Their first fight,” Tooru stage-whispers. 

Hajime grabs the pillow off their bed and shoves it into his face. Takahiro nods, thankful. 

Issei rubs the back of his neck, looking at some spot in the ceiling rather than at his  _husband_. “Well, it’s not like I was totally sober, mind you. But I dunno, I sort of thought it’d be nice to be married to you, y’know? We’re practically married already.” 

“That may be!” _Wow it totally was._  “But I want to be sober when I get a proposal! Or propose to you!” 

“…That was a ‘you’, not an ‘anyone’,” Hajime helpfully points out in the leftover silence. 

Tooru pulls the pillow off his face and instead shoves it onto Hajime’s. Once again, Takahiro nods, thankful. What great friends. 

Issei calmly takes Takahiro’s hand and pulls the silver band off of his finger. He pulls the same one off of his, too, and then swaps them. He holds up his own and says, still in a perfect deadpan, “Hanamaki Takahiro, will you marry me even though we are totally already legally wed?” 

“I want another date first,” Takahiro loftily replies and plucks the offered ring out of his fingers. Issei’s ring looks like it’s the same kind as his, although a little larger, he finds, after he tries it on. (Issei looks very regretful at putting Takahiro’s on; it looks quite stuck.) 

“So… We’re dating, then?” 

“Dating _and_  married.” 

“That sounds fun. Do you think room service would judge us if we asked for some lube for this?” Issei asks, staring down worriedly at his hand. “I don’t want to ask either of you two for yours since I’m sure you’ll need it all for your honeymoon. Or maybe butter or oil or something…” 

“Don’t worry, I have some,” Takahiro offers. The face Tooru pulls is worth any teasing Issei will give him for it.  

“I have the best husband,” Issei says instead with a fake, dreamy sigh. But, looking up at his face, Takahiro is a little surprised to see that maybe it’s not so affected, after all. He recognizes that dopey, sappy look, even if this is about a 1 to Hajime’s 11. Maybe it’s a 2. Takahiro can live with a 2 for now. “And don’t worry, this all happened around four in the morning, so _tonight_  is our wedding night. I’m so glad we’ll be able to test out how soundproof these walls really are, since our dear,  _dear_  friend Tooru claimed they were.” 

“What a kind friend,” Takahiro agrees and pretends to wipe away a tear. 

“You two are going to be a nightmare,” Tooru declares. 

“Like they weren’t already?” Hajime asks. 

Issei and Takahiro can only shrug, in unison, in response. 


End file.
